


we are all fucked, and we are all saved

by Princex_N



Series: i love you and the world is ending and i love you [1]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mercy Killing, POV Second Person, Reconciliation, Sad, Suicide Attempt, in a very twisted sort of way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princex_N/pseuds/Princex_N
Summary: "You killed him! And he died here slowly, because ofyou!"Alex isn't lying, but that doesn't mean he's telling the whole truth either.
Relationships: Alex Kralie/Brian Thomas, Brian & Timothy "Tim" W.
Series: i love you and the world is ending and i love you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672126
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	we are all fucked, and we are all saved

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [this A Softer World](http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=896) comic

You thought that it would work. 

At least, you were really hoping that it would. 

You're not sure if this was your first choice, if you wanted it to work out another way. Your plan had been set in place, carefully constructed out of moving pieces it had taken so long to push into place, broken apart with all the subtlety of a pipe to the back of the head. You'd tried to warn Jay off, once you'd realized, but it hadn't worked, and you're not sure if that's your fault too or not. 

But you were going to finish what you started, even if your plans had crumbled into dust. Once things fell apart, you knew what you had to do. You knew what you had to do, and you had thought that, maybe, you wouldn't have to do it alone. 

But Tim was... You're not sure if Tim is more or less of a liar than you thought he was, but you think maybe the way he snarled at you, bared his teeth and narrowed his tear-stained eyes in anger and set chase instead of helping you the way he had before, you think maybe he _doesn't_ remember. Maybe he was telling the truth about _that_ , or maybe he was just closer to Jay than he ever was to you (that wasn't how things were supposed to happen). Who's to say? 

But Tim didn't take the offer, and you set running, and made up your mind as quick as you could (you've gotten good at thinking on your feet). 

None of you were going to survive this, not with the way things turned out. That's okay. 

You just didn't want Tim to be the one who had to finish the job. Not for you. 

(He was a _liar_ , he's a _liar_ , and maybe it was his fault and maybe it wasn't. You're unbelievably pissed at him, it's unforgivable, it's untenable. You had _trusted_ him, and he was your _friend_ , and you hate him more than almost anything, you think. But at the same time, you trusted him, and he was your friend, and Tim has always been too empathetic for his own good.) 

So he backed you up against a ledge. Maybe he'd take the swing and maybe he wouldn't, but you known that you weren't going to survive when you'd started this last ditch effort (you've known for a while, you thought. You're skinnier than you ever have been in your life, your mouth is dry and animal in its foulness, you can't remember the last time the back of your teeth didn't taste like blood; you think you've been killing yourself longer than you'd ever admit). Maybe Tim would have followed through, maybe he wouldn't have, but you're used to taking options away from other people by now.

You let go before he ever made his decision, and thought it would be enough. 

Clearly it wasn't. 

The pain is all-encompassing, paralyzing in intensity (or maybe you're just hurt worse than you thought). You feel Tim rustle through your pockets and can't even think well enough to stop grinding your teeth and let more than a few ragged whimpers out of your mouth (you can't remember the last time you spoke). 

You feel _it_ somewhere behind you, the ice pick of its presence piercing through the backs of your eyes and into the tissue of your brain and it's still not enough to distract you from the white hot agony of your body. You almost hope it'll come and finish the job, isn't that what it wants? What it's wanted from the beginning? (What the fuck _did_ it ever want from you? From any of you?) You think it takes you somewhere, somewhere familiar, cold and dark and empty and you hope that it'll just fucking kill you this time and let you get some fucking rest, because it left you alive last time and you had tried so hard to _help_ and hadn't managed to get any of it right. You're just tired this time. The anger is too far away for you to reach. Too smothered by exhaustion to be the thing that props you up any longer. 

Your body isn't killing you quick enough. Cold concrete under your hands as you scramble for purchase, try to find an anchor in the pain, not sure if you want to kill yourself faster or find a way to save yourself. (None of you were going to survive this). Someone breathes ragged above you, and you can't see clearly enough to tell who it is. Does _that thing_ breathe? Did it bring you here to finish the job, finally? 

But it was never the thing that killed anyone, was it?

Your muscles spasm around shattered bones as your body tries to seize when it moves you again, and the scream that tries to tear its way free of your throat is too ragged to be called anything stronger than a whine. You blink your blurry eyes open to the sight of a dirty room lit by the sunlight streaming in through the window, debris poking into the bruised and broken parts of your body. Alex squatting in the corner, gun in hand, eyes as empty cold as they have been for the past few years. 

The two of you blink at each other. He's pulled your mask off before, probably knew it was you even before he'd ever gotten close enough to manage it. Did it tell him? Does it talk to him? Did it ever? Either way, he's not surprised to see you and you're too caught up in the sharp web of pain to be shocked to see him in return. 

Alex snorts, but there's no humor in it. "Fucking _Tim_ ," he spits. "Can't do anything _right_." 

The words are so fucking far from your mouth (you can't remember the last time you _spoke_ ), but you string them together with agonizing concentration. Alex waits, or maybe he just doesn't care enough to interrupt. "Jumped," you manage, forcing the fragmented word out of your raspy throat and broken mouth. It doesn't really matter, there's no point in defending anyone anymore - especially not to Alex - but you say it anyway. 

He makes a noise that could have been a laugh if it wasn't so sad. "Of course you did," he says. "You always were too considerate." 

It's strange how normal the banter feels. Like you're still in college. Like Alex hadn't killed most of your college friends, hadn't sacrificed all of you to some perverted nightmare incarnate, hadn't been the reason none of you went on to live normal fucking lives. Like your spine isn't numbing odd patches in the agony of your legs, like your cracked skull isn't bleeding sluggishly down the back of your neck. 

"Didn't want," you gasp wetly, "to give you the satisfaction." 

You smirk and he almost laughs. A pale parody of what you two used to be. 

"How's that working out for you?" he asks. 

There are tears in your eyes and you can't muster up the concentration to be ashamed of them or proud enough to stop them. There's blood pooling in the back of your throat. There's bone pressed up against the meat of your skin. 

"Been better," you rasp. You try to breathe, splutter, feel blood splatter against your teeth (you can't remember the last time the back of your teeth didn't taste like blood). Tilt your head as best as you can manage (are you imagining the soft shift of bone as you move? The quiet give of it as you roll it over the concrete? Does it even matter at this point?), look at him. "Please," you say, not sure what you're asking for and all too aware of what you want from him at the same time. 

None of you were going to survive this. 

You can't see very well (you can't tell if it's the tears or the head injury. You were a psych major, once, you know where the occipital lobe is, what it's for, what happens when you bounce it off the concrete after a two story drop), you think Alex's eyes might be shining too. You wonder if he's just as fucking tired as you are.

You wonder if things ever could have been different (you don't think they could have ever played out in any other way). 

"Thought you didn't want to give me the satisfaction?" he asks, but he steps closer despite it. 

You can barely move, not sure if you're even capable of shrugging anymore and not willing enough to try. You laugh and nearly choke instead. Smile and try to remember the last time you did (was it with him? "What's this scene supposed to mean? Was I supposed to be quiet? I feel like this movie is all walking," grinning at the quiet frustration Alex tried and failed to hide as you ribbed him, natural and carefree. Was that it? The last time you had felt anything other than anger, and hate, and terror?), feel the grit of dried blood scrape beneath your cracked lips. 

It's strange how easy it feels. 

"Least you have," breathe ragged and wish your body would just _stop_ already, "practice." 

He looks at you, you think he might look sad. You wonder how you look to him. You can feel the broken pieces of bone scrape against nerves, feel blood pooling under your skin, feel the faltering way your ribcage keeps rising and falling, but you don't stop breathing, your heart keeps beating unsteady in your chest, you're not dying fucking _fast enough_ yet and you are so _tired_. 

Your eyes roll unsteady in their sockets, searching, fix on him as best as they can manage. "Please," you ask again. You ask, plea, _beg_. 

He steps over you careful, gets down to his knees and hovers over your midsection, doesn't put any weight on your stubborn broken body, and you'd be shocked by the unspeakable gratitude welling in your chest if you weren't so preoccupied by the blood pooling there too - too slowly to do the job on its own.

"I didn't want this for any of you," he says softly, voice a ragged whisper thick in his throat. 

You think you believe him. The words skitter out of reach when you try to speak them. 

He doesn't wait for you to find them this time, his hands wrapping around your neck with excruciating care; warm dry palms settling into place as he tries to avoid jostling anything more than he has to. A pale parody of what used to be. What could have been. 

You smile, you can still manage that. Feel your bloodstained teeth bare up at him and hope that he sees the newly softened parts of you instead of the wounded angry animal - all sharp edges and raw nerves and threats - that you have been for years. Feel his hands tighten against your skin just as you manage to shift one of your hands well enough to brush against his ankle. 

You think you hear him sob above you, but don't get a chance to dwell on it. 

Alex always was skilled at perfecting everything he ever put his mind to learning. 

**Author's Note:**

> idk what to tell you, man. i'm sad :(
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.princex-n.tumblr.com)


End file.
